A Body at Bunco (22 page)

Miles said thoughtfully, “What were you like in high school, Myrtle? Who did you hang out with?”

“
Amazing
people,” said Myrtle with a sniff.

“Then some things really
don’t
change,” said Miles smugly.

After Miles had left to check on Puddin’s progress, Elaine called to report that Jack had taken a short nap and that Red was available to drive them to Roger’s Automotive.

As Myrtle suspected, Tim Rogers was glad to see them. He was very deferential to Myrtle and made sure to listen very carefully to Elaine when she was telling him what she was looking for in a new minivan. Apparently, business had been slow at the dealership lately, which explained why he pulled the expensive ad from the
Bradley Bugle
.

Myrtle said, “Red was going to drive us over to Creighton, Tim, but I told him I was
sure
we could work out a deal here and save us all the trouble. But my only requirements are that you give Elaine and Red an excellent deal and that you resume advertising at the
Bradley Bugle
. I’m prepared to send two other customers your way if you just agree to run those ads again.”

“Miss Myrtle, you’re an angel,” said Tim, beaming.

Elaine strangled on something at these words and began violently coughing.

“No, I mean it. And I think that’s a fine trade. Thanks, Miss Myrtle.”

The afternoon went so well that by the end of it Elaine was in the office signing paperwork for a new van while Myrtle attempted to entertain Jack in the showroom of the dealership. Once the dealer installed Jack’s car seat in the van, Elaine drove them out of the lot. “This is wonderful!” she said in a happy voice. “And I think we got a very good deal for it.”

“I think so, too,” said Myrtle. She thought about having Elaine drop her off at the newspaper office but then decided that it might be nice to stretch her legs and walk over. And it would give her some time to think of a nice way to tell Sloan that everyone despised the paper now.

After getting home and having a short snack, Myrtle decided to head back out. Myrtle decided that the best approach with Sloan was to attempt to make him see reason. If that didn’t work, she could always use intimidation. That would be a piece of cake since she intimidated Sloan anyway.

As soon as Myrtle walked out her front door, she had an Erma Sherman sighting. Fortunately, Erma appeared to be busily cleaning out her car with antiseptic wipes of some sort. Myrtle quietly slipped past her.

It only took a few minutes to walk to downtown Bradley. Myrtle was so busily mulling over the next things she wanted to do that she failed to notice that Pasha was trotting along behind her on the sidewalk.

Once Myrtle reached the splintery wooden door of the
Bradley Bugle
office, she turned to see Pasha standing right behind her. The black cat looked pleased with herself.

“Pasha! What are you doing, pretty girl? You shouldn’t be here. You’re supposed to be hunting the pesky squirrels at my feeders and causing havoc among small mammals. Subduing nature, and all that. This is no place for you.”

Pasha seemed to disagree. For whatever reason, she was in the mood to be with Myrtle. Perhaps the animal sensed that Myrtle was on a mission and she’d decided to come along to help out … because, when Myrtle opened the door into the office, Pasha bounded in.

Chapter Seventeen

Sloan Jones wasn’t in and he hadn’t seemed to care enough about the contents of the newsroom to lock the door behind him. Pasha appeared to enjoy the dark space with its paper-laden desks and smell of old books. She darted around the large room, apparently looking for prey. Myrtle wondered, a bit uneasily, if there might be a few mice scampering around.

Myrtle looked for a place to sit and wait for Sloan. Sloan’s own desk looked to be the most comfortable. He had a large rolling chair with a high back. The desk in front of the chair was as crammed with papers and old printed photos. Myrtle sat rather primly in the chair, clutching her purse and thinking over what she was going to say to Sloan.

Pasha stopped hunting and leaped up on Sloan’s desk, scattering papers wildly. The black cat stared intently at Myrtle, batted some papers out of Sloan’s inbox, and then leaped down to the floor to continue her search for a snack.

Myrtle discovered that the contents of Sloan’s inbox were rather intriguing. “Precious Pasha,” she murmured. Everything in the inbox appeared to be recent, according to the dates. Whenever Sloan got a lead for a story via email, he’d print it and stick it in his inbox. Consequently, it was jam-packed.

Leafing through the papers, Myrtle saw a story about Wilson Mayfield getting his Eagle Rank, high school student Priscilla Truman being chosen as a page in the state house, and Mrs. Flotman’s weighty decision to plant peppers instead of continuing with her prize-winning tomatoes.

Frowning, Myrtle pulled the newspaper from her pocketbook. In the paper Myrtle was holding, she saw no mention of any peppers, Eagles, or pages. On the side of Sloan’s desk, she saw the previous newspaper and flipped through it, too. No mention of the small-town topics she saw in his inbox. In fact, a running theme in both newspapers were bigger stories that were either taking place in the larger region or more sensationalistic stories—gossipy pieces about local residents.

“This is not good,” muttered Myrtle. It wasn’t that readers weren’t submitting content to him. It was that Sloan wasn’t printing it.

But what could she do? Oh, she could try to pressure Sloan. But hadn’t she tried earlier? Wouldn’t he just placate her, get her out of there, and then just do whatever he pleased? His vision for the newspaper was suddenly radically different from hers. And radically different, it seemed, from what his readers were actually looking for. Sloan needed to be
convinced
.

That’s when Myrtle noticed Sloan’s desktop on the next desk over. Its screen was dimmed as if it were sleeping. She paused a fraction of a second before scooting the rolling chair over and waking it with a jiggle of the mouse.

Judging from the sounds from the other side of the newsroom, Pasha appeared to have found a
real
mouse. Myrtle determinedly avoided watching the carnage taking place across the room.

Myrtle squinted at the screen. The homepage appeared to have some sort of scantily clad females on it. She sighed in distaste, hastily studied the shortcut icons on the desktop. She spotted the shortcuts for Facebook and Twitter. And smiled.

Myrtle held her breath as she clicked on the icons and the pages came up. She released her breath in relief as she saw that Sloan, however unwisely, had chosen to have the computer automatically sign him in and remember his passwords.

So now she was looking at the
Bradley Bugle
’s social media. The newspaper’s sites hadn’t been updated for weeks. Myrtle decided it was time for a few helpful updates from the paper.

For the Facebook page, she wrote:
The
Bradley Bugle
congratulates Wilson Mayfield, Troop 39‘s 100th Eagle Scout
! She carefully tagged the Mayfields on the update to make sure it showed up on their profile page. Myrtle repeated this process with ten other neighborhood stories that had been cluttering Sloan’s inbox.

The Twitter was a little harder. She stared at the page for a minute. Then she spotted the ‘what’s happening’ status update bar at the top of the page. Myrtle thought a moment. Then she typed: Bradley Bugle
subscription giveaway! To enter, follow the paper online. Extra entries for sharing!
She noticed she still had forty-two characters remaining. Wasn’t she supposed to do a hashtag thing with Twitter? She added #FreeBugle. She copied the post and shared it on the Facebook page, too.

Pasha ran up. She appeared to have a small creature in her mouth. Myrtle’s response was to close the social media windows and carefully scoot Sloan’s rolling chair away from the cat and its thankfully-dead prey.

Just in time, too. Myrtle heard Sloan whistling outside. She had no intention of telling him about the newspaper’s updates or giveaway contest until it was a massive success. There was no reason to undermine the operation until it was over. It would be better if she knew the passwords, though. Otherwise, she’d have to keep sneaking into the newsroom and trying to figure out when Sloan would be out. That would require quite a bit more Sloan-tracking than she wanted.

It was then that she spotted a dingy, coffee tinged sticky note on the side of the monitor with the passwords on it. Myrtle snagged it and stuffed it into her pocketbook.

And not a moment too soon. Sloan’s whistling stopped as soon as he opened the door. He clutched a McDonald’s bag and wore a baseball cap, which he hastily removed. “Miss Myrtle! I didn’t know you were going to be in here.”

“You should have
guessed
I was going to be here.”

Sloan looked blankly at her.

“Because of the way my article turned out,” she added impatiently. “It was a lurid bit of yellow journalism.”

Sloan backed up a little until his large frame hit the door. “Aww, don’t say that, Miss Myrtle. It was just very
contemporary
, that’s all. It had a strong hook.”

“Let’s face it, it read like pulp fiction. For heaven’s sake, Sloan!”

Sloan slumped. “But Miss Myrtle, this is our best hope for saving the paper. We’ve got to move with the times. We’ve got to deliver what the people want.”

“What people? Have you actually talked to real people?”

Sloan’s face was hurt. “Of course I have.”

“People who live in
Bradley
?”

Sloan looked away.

“See, that’s where you’re going wrong. You’re communicating with journalists in other towns, right? Maybe think tank kinds of people who are trying to fix journalism. But you’re not listening to the folks who actually
subscribe
to the paper,” said Myrtle.

“Or unsubscribe,” said Sloan glumly.

“Here’s the thing. I’ve talked to a few readers and they’ve been adamantly against the direction in which the newspaper is heading. They love the folksy stuff. Give them Mabel’s favorite recipe for tomato pie. Tell them about Jim’s ham radio hobby. But for heaven’s sake, keep out of the tabloid-style gossip,” Myrtle said.

Sloan sighed. “I just don’t know, Miss Myrtle.”

“Trust me. Give it a try. Return to your old style of writing stories. Besides, I have some stuff I’m working on for you.”

Now Sloan looked concerned. “What kind of stuff?”

“Nothing for you to worry about.”

Sloan looked more worried than ever.

“Let’s just say that it has something to do with your advertising. And there’s something else I’m trying, too.”

He was still backed against the door, still clutching the fast food bag. His expression was defensive. “All I want is what’s good for the paper.”

“Well then, you and I are on the same side,” said Myrtle smoothly.

At that moment, Pasha decided to make herself known. She pranced up to Sloan and deposited the deceased rodent at his feet with a flourish.

Sloan squealed in response. “Where did that cat come from?”

Myrtle snorted. “Shouldn’t you be more concerned about what the cat
caught
?”

Sloan paled. “I thought I heard rustlings along the edges of the back wall from time to time. But there’s so much paper in the newsroom that I figured a draft was blowing it all around.”

“I believe you’ve created the ultimate habitat for mice, Sloan. Lucky for you that my cat, Pasha, was bound and determined to get in here. I suppose she knew the kind of environment in here. And she is clearly an excellent mouser,” said Myrtle proudly.

“What am I going to do about … that,” asked Sloan, staring aghast at Pasha’s deposit.

“You’re going to thank Pasha profusely. It’s what she expects. And, if you’re very lucky, she’ll return for more hunting. Think of it—you might be able to rid yourself of an infestation for free! Perhaps a more appropriate thank-you would be a couple of cans of tuna or a container of cat treats. You could pick them up the next time you go out. If I know you’re going to treat Pasha well, I could lease her to you to help you with your problem. But you need to let her back out before you lock up for the night. And you’ll need to provide water and a litterbox,” added Myrtle.

Sloan was staring at Pasha as if he wasn’t sure if he’d rather have the cat or the mice.

Myrtle left the
Bradley Bugle
with a sense of accomplishment. She had the passwords for the social media accounts in her pocketbook. Sloan appeared to be
possibly
willing to back off from the lurid stories for the family newspaper. And she’d helped Pasha find entertainment.

Now she wanted to visit Mimsy. Since Mimsy had so kindly given her a casserole the last time, Myrtle figured she could return the favor. It would, after all, provide her with an excuse for visiting. And there
had
just been a family funeral that very morning. A casserole was practically required.

She supposed she should also see if Miles were up to visiting Mimsy, too. She’d missed her sidekick’s input, along with his silent presence. And she thought that Miles had missed it, too.

Having a feeling that she really didn’t have the ingredients to put any sort of casserole together, Myrtle stopped by the grocery store while she was in downtown. There weren’t many people at the store, which suited Myrtle fine. She needed to remember what she had in her pantry and fridge and what type of recipe she could cook. This type of thinking required intense concentration on Myrtle’s part and having Bradley residents ply her with chitchat wasn’t going to help.

She had occasionally made a chicken casserole containing wild rice, green beans, and water chestnuts. One of the regular recipes on her rotation, it had the distinction of being the one that Red was most likely to eat while growing up. She thought again with vexation how annoying the day had been when he’d revealed that he’d fed many of his meals to their faithful dog, Sport. Even more vexing was the further revelation that his friends’ parents had been feeding him meals to make up for the fact.